The World Isn't Enough For Me
by KitKat1122
Summary: Ever since the Revolutionary War, the two nations have been living within their own lies, both somehow still hoping for a resolution. Yet this never happens. England can't let go of America. And America can't let go of England. It seems the the world just isn't enough for either of them.
1. Because of You

Quick thing I wrote when listening to: /watch?v=q-v-RqgU4eQ

The title of the song means 'The World Is Not Enough For Me'

Also try listening to 'Qui Per Te': /watch?v=bXdA5eKpZso

That song is very, very fitting to England and America's relationship (from Englands POV) Search the lyrics up, you'll see.

I'm physically addicted to Italian music.

* * *

America's smile was one thing England both loved and despised – it was too bright, but it was beautiful; it was too often, but it was care free; it was fake. But it was at least something.

England rarely ever smiled as he knew himself – sure a smirk, sure a chuckle, here and there. But it had never gone past that. It had been far, _far_ too long since he had laughed his heart out. Since he had burst into tears laughing. Since he had felt the infectious feathery feeling building up inside him – bubbling like a soda and threatening to make him cry with happiness as his stomach ached. He wanted to cry. He wanted to cry, so much.

But his pride ever so easily stopped that. It held him together. It was engraved in his stubborn bones, fluid in his blood, swirling in his head and telling him what to say. Was America the same? Did he hide behind his pride like the rainy nation did?

Probably not. He must be really happy. He's free. Like he has always wanted to be.

And that hurt. What America had, England never could – England couldn't be free. He couldn't fly and escape everything the world had grounded him to. He couldn't escape the world that simply wasn't enough for him. England couldn't feel the wind whip and flick against his skin in his childish old adventures of the sea. He couldn't scream out how much happiness he had when he stood in that empty field of that day - instead, he had cried. He cried as America's musket was pulled away. He cried with such happiness. Because America hated him. And America had finally gone, free and happy – without the burden of the nation that wanted to clip his wings to hold him just a bit closer.

America was happy, England was not.

But that was okay. Because that's all England needed.

After all, he was just a bitter old man, clinging to his little stories with his frail hands. All he needed was America's happy ending, not his.

So selfless, right? So unlike England, because this, of course, all this was not for his own need. It was all for America and his soaring dreams, his brimming heart. It was for his prideful nature that ever so needed to fly away from England's weak nest. A weak nest made of loneliness. England's loneliness.

Because that was the cold hard truth.

England was alone.

No one could fix that.

England had always been alone.


	2. Because of Me

England's smile was something America rarely ever saw – he was so distant and impossible to reach. Yet they fought in meetings, teasing, joking, and jabbing at each other's past wounds. They acted it out. Like they were in nothing but a children's theatre. They pretended it was all good, that the day long ago was, in fact, _long ago a_ nd they had completely forgotten it all – that was the script

The empty lines, the hollow canned laughter, the lonesome stage lights. What a play. All happy in the end, happy enough for the audience to take home and not feel fooled.

America was not fooled though. As the actor, he held two roles. Himself and his mask of happiness. Façades were tainted in his name, smiles were burdened to him, happiness was nothing but a word that he told himself was all he had. Was England the same? Did he hide behind his pride like the sunny nation did?

Probably not. He must be really happy. He's free of me. Free of my sickening presence.

And that hurt. All America wanted was to talk as they did once ago. He _wanted_ to be free, he _wanted_ to no longer be of England's control – but he didn't want every silence of theirs to be painful. He wanted that comfortable silence that he knew was possible, that he once held so tightly in his small hands. And maybe that was childish, to want such a thing.

He had fought for freedom of himself, and in that, he lost his freedom with England. He couldn't hold England's coarse hand as he did as a child. He couldn't cry and bury his face into his shirt. He couldn't let tears splatter out in a sulk and wait for England's warm comfort. Those boundless skies he ached for, the skies England had said were in his own blue eyes, were still unreachable. He'd reach and find them grey – just as the day he had pointed his musket to the weeping mess, collapsed on the ground. He'd feel tears scream to escape, he'd feel his voice lose itself as his mouth opened to speak. He wanted to cry. He wanted to shout out, feel his voice go hoarse because he needed England to hear him.

But he couldn't, and instead, he granted England the removal of a tumour – the tumour which had pained him so much. Because England had hated him. And America had finally stopped hurting him – pushing England away and for once, surely letting the quiet nation rest.

If England could so much as smile, not for America, but because of America absence...

That would be enough. That was all he needed.

After all, he was just a silly youth, reaching for the dying stars and spoiling his own future with his tainted hands. All he needed was England's happy ending, not his.

So selfless, right? So unlike America, because this, of course, all this was not for his own need. It was all for England and his rare smiles, his battered heart. It was for his prideful nature that ever so needed America disgusting façade gone. A weak façade made of loneliness. America's loneliness.

Because that was the cold hard truth.

America was alone.

No one could fix that.

America would always be alone.


End file.
